


Contact.

by JustACapybara



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anyway uh, Gore, HRM, Not Canon Compliant, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), also no specific TWs, also possible spoilers for every season, and, and i also really REALLY want to get into describing gore so like yyyyyyeah., anyhoot yeah there's a lot of personal HCs here that may be, anyway enjoy!, because I'm an idiot that's going to forget one and it'll be a pain for you and me, dropping it there for good measure, enjoy reading?, expect every TW that TMA already has, idk if I DID spoil anything but I am scared of doing so and ruining your day so just you know, irreality, man I really like talking to you the reader don't I? shoot maybe I should get a better trick, maybe watch out for, oh right uhhh, so just, so you know, those two are the most common ones since I do reference real places a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24430420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustACapybara/pseuds/JustACapybara
Summary: Machado Esoteric Records.In the unassuming office of a building in the central parts of the city Rio De Janeiro, where millions do their business daily, the small company is located. Very few people enter and very few people leave. Usually, the same people. Three work there, and three are not human - not fully - anymore.You, somehow, have been chosen to read the following. Did you seek it? Did they hand it to you? It does not matter. Every natural instinct in your body is telling you to ignore the file, to close the E-mail, to forget you ever heard about that Institute. Most likely, you are not even Brazilian. Maybe you encrypt your data. Maybe you haven’t felt the urge to check your inbox in forever but today of all days you do. And yet they found you. Finally, the curiosity that permeates all beings touched by The Entities makes you crumble.You click.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. The Monastery Of God's Blissful Eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so uhm, like, I know that "real statements can't be digitalized" blah blah blah but hear me out aight
> 
> what. if. they could. why? because - and this might sound a little weird or stupid - what if every entity needed, say, a balanced diet? sure the eye could just feed out of spies and people who get more than they bargained for when exploring but what if the Eye and all other entities wanted diff 'meals'
> 
> so, let's say for the sake of an argument, a 1300's archive founded on the basis of gathering confessions and writing them down so they can study sinners, and it just so happens a lot of people that do dumb shit also end up finding out about supernatural entities and for some reason they just feel Compelled to tell it to these priests. sounds good? they're not gonna be called statements, they'd be written in the black ink, with feather pens, and in the style of the european christian monks. maybe they'd simply call them confessions. and compile them. now let's go back to TMI. did they always use tape recorders? wasn't the institute founded on like 1800's? they didn't have tape recorders back then, so what, were there no statements able to be recorded? and what of the arabic institute (or was it egyptian? i forget, it's been a while since I re-saw that ep) that the soldier confessed of to Gertrude?
> 
> anyway what I'm getting at is, I'm starting this series to explore multiple Archives, Archivists and their impact and why they were wiped out or went into hiding. and you, the reader, are the work horse that will go everywhere to bring back / mail what you find back to this Archivist and their little Archive. they are able to work digitally and I will build upon this brazilian institute's powers and motivations in the following segments, and tbh, I might just use this as a launching board to write statements I want. so yeah. uh. boy I wrote a lot here didn't I. my bad!!! but I just wanted to give context about what I'm thinking about and why I even made this despite the "digitalized = can't work for E V I L". i mean ffs the buried use metro cars and THE LONELY + VAST + DARK USED A GOD DAMN SPACE STATION. digitalized evil can't work my ass. i'm sorry i'm jsut really mad at the idea that "it's too SpoOkY for techonolgy". tech can be so fucking scary. > : (
> 
> ALSO small detail only 13 entities are mentioned by that monks because it was still 1300's, the Flesh only came up during the industrial revolution. but for anyone that likes the fleshy frens I will mention them later in the series too. :3c
> 
> anyway, uhm, enjoy!!! sorry for this whole spiel. ;~;

Hello and thank you for doing the right thing.

We are Machado Esoteric Records. MER for short. : )

If you are reading this, then you know the game you play. And if you don’t, welcome to your introduction. You should be glad; I think the Spider finds it more interesting to consume the curious than to feed their curiosity.

Now I don’t need to know if you have five arms and are a cannibal, I do not need to listen to your drums nor do I need to know if the face you wear is your own. While I would find said knowledge delectable, figuring it out is not the base nor the need of this missive.

You were picked for a very specific reason. You clicked.

Why did you click, in the end? Are you going to derive pleasure from reading what I type, like I do reading and mindlessly tapping my fingers on my lap, as if it were a keyboard? Curiosity, searing, clawing your mind and forcing you to know? Were the esoteric contents you pursued too light, and, pardon my pun, not quite enough to keep you content… so a random e-mail from such an oddly titled place was just too much to deny?

Maybe my Boss contacted you first and if so you must forgive my ramblings. We are known to muse on and on, as you should be well aware.

This is our Institute, our Library, our Archive... and while we do not seek to employ you, we seek to contact you and have you run errands.

There will be money in this. How much I cannot tell, but there will be more than enough for you to be happy with - if you even care about those things. Meat aplenty if you so wish, and being told to fetch may be a delight to some of you.

Again, I ramble. You must forgive me. : (

It is a habit that is hard to get rid of. (Nearly rambled again. Comparisons are so much fun! : P )

If by now you are not aware, most countries and civilizations have or had an Institute of their own. I believe the most prominent one so far has been a quite recent one (not as recent as us!) currently located in England. As my employee likes to say, “just because the King is in check does not mean the rest of the board stopped existing. The pawns, towers and horses must do their duty while they wait for their game to finish, and act when told to.” I quite like that one quote. Never have been a fan of chess however, so I can only assume it makes sense. Maybe she said it simply to mess with me? I try not to think too hard about her. The chittering noise of a thousand eight-legged creatures permeates my brain still from the last time it accidentally happened.

Oh, and if you are wondering how in the world did an Agent of the Spider infiltrate an institute, I can tell you! And if you do not care, simply press “Ctrl” and “F” and go to “Bolo”. It just means cake, and should easily let you skip this part! And if you can’t do that for whatever reason, I’m sorry, and I hope you can bear this small detour from your assignment! : D

Well, The MER was founded two years ago, in 2014. For the first year it was a relatively quiet company, though honestly it was mostly used to launder money through buying “information” and unique, specific Records that we kept. It was on February the fourth of 2015 that my boss did not come to work, but at that point, I had developed what I can only describe as kind of an addiction to typing these out. Some Records made me roll my eyes and throw away, but others… oh, you surely have something that feeds you in this way. Like candy used to when we were more… normal, and how I can only assume coke makes one feel because it is that ecstatic! : P

Still, I was informed the next week that the company had been bought out by a friend of Luís’ that I had not heard of. She had a french name. Joli was the name I was given, and when I went back, I could barely walk! I now understand what was making me so weak but I just thought I had a severe cold, and apologized to my new boss once I saw her sitting on her desk.

She told me to digitalize a Record someone had recently written. I will not post the record here, but let us just say that she filled me in with what was happening. ; )

She also gave me the option to leave if I wanted to, as the Institute had not yet ‘formally’ been… touched. I was just a guy at that stage. I worked at an Archive, of course, but my boss didn’t serve as an Avatar of an Entity as far as I am aware, and it was only by me being the singular employee (despite what the records might tell you!) that it even got its attention. As I am sure you understand that there have been a lot of places that have gathered horror stories but not all have been touched by the Eye itself. Not every collection of spooky stories is an Archive, not every person in charge of collecting said stories an Archivist! (Not willingly, at least. But everyone serves the entities one way or the other! Either by feeding them or serving them unaware, in a smaller scale than us. : P)

Now I must admit I am a foolish creature and one driven by the need to know things. It is why I even got the job, despite knowing full well as soon as I was hired that it was just a facade for a shady businessman to look smart on the topic of esoteric arts. We even had an untampered ‘Leitner’! I never read it, and neither has my new Boss or my Assistant. I have an inkling sensation Luís was forced to, however. So of course I accepted to become the owner.

Now, I own the company. I am the Head Archivist and technically and legally I am the one that owns it. But I am under no illusion that I owe my life and more to Joli. (Which is a fake name. I don’t know her real name. But I find it cute, so I comply. Cuter than boss, too! : P )

It has also been in the past two months that I have taken under my wing a german immigrant whose name shan’t be revealed (mostly because they are still picking one!!!) who I believe to be showing signs of being a promising Hunter. I tend to keep them in check and Joli helps, so hopefully, they will be able to control their psyche rather than going fully feral, or getting lost as some reports seem to indicate is the other option. They are very nice, and mostly help me find things in our vicinity - that is, Brasil.

Bolo! See, I remembered! : P

Here is where you come in.

Brasil is a big place with a lot of supernatural elements, (I find it hard to believe some of our folklore can’t be traced back to certain entities. Curupira, Boitatá, The Headless Mare… too many coincidences. I am still exploring that train of thought but for now I am stuck simply speculating until further proof.) but just as I am sure the United Kingdom’s archive is not the only place in the world where world-threatening things happen, neither is Brasil. What we need, whether you want to concur or not, is information. Information helps every Entity, everywhere, even if it has to go through our watch first. : P

I do not know where you are located, but hopefully, close by to our target. If not, I am sure Joli has tweaked a few things to make sure you can find your way to our requested destiny.

This will be the first of a series of requests! And if you simply toggle on your webcam, or any sort of live feed and say “I agree”, I should be able to see. : ) I do advise not to sleep until the contract is over, however! I don’t want to pester you in your dreams. Well, I do, but I don’t want to upset you. : P

First, you are going to France! Specifically, to the coordinates we sent you. Honestly, I can’t give much more detail than what will come later. You will know the information if you agree. Rest assured. : )

Just as I will know if you agreed if you can read whatever has been written after this part.

What you are looking for are the ruins of a monastery. It should be mostly stone foundation and mossy walls, and apparently should have somewhere in its vicinities a way underground to find the actual stash of Records that we seek. The monks there were 'The eyes and ears of God’, and took great pleasure in listening to the sins and tales of any traveler who wished to speak. Attached should be the now uncorrupted files of the letters sent by priest Emanuel Agustin, a Spanish monk that sought to join them before… well, I don’t want to spoil it!!! Just read. : P I hope you find it as entertaining as I did. ; ) And even if you are not the reading type, there may be clues that can be useful inside!!! So please don’t discard it as boring!

Now.

First letter of Emanuel Agustin to the Abbot Leroy, from the Monastery of God’s Blissful Eyes. Somewhere near the coordinates thus given to the Reader. Translated from 14th century French to 21st century English for clarity’s sake.

Record Begins. (I have been waiting for this so badly you don’t even know, buckaroo. ; P)

* * *

> **D** earest Leroy, Abbot of this illustrious Monastery,
> 
> Thank you so much for allowing me to join such a prestigious monastery. I must confess dear Leroy that I had little faith remaining before I got here but after spending but a mere few nights I can already tell how much good you and your novices are doing. I am indeed surprised by the small scale of your operation when this is such a delightful idea. I do understand why it is not widely adopted but being able to hear not only the sins but the stories of these poor people must make their souls so much lighter. I do wish the punishments were more severe, as one rarely can attain true atonement without some sort of pain, as the flagellants prove so succinctly.
> 
> I write this to you and leave it on your quarters as I know you do very little outside of your confessional. I admire your dedication and find it refreshing to see a man that serves our Father and Lord with such fierceness.
> 
> I must confess however that part of your behavior does put some doubt in me. The abbey in general has a strange feeling. I understand that we are to watch the sinners, listen to the sinners, and take the burden of horrors from them so we may all share the weight, but there are some things I find frankly unnecessary. I do not mind having Christ suffer his penance with eyes open when represented at the cross, but must he look at us? It feels like all I can see are his eyes. And the sensation I get is not one of peace and acceptance. It feels like having Christ judge me. Look into me. And some secrets are better left untampered for the greater good, Abbot. May you find sense in my words.
> 
> Signed and to be delivered to your room from one of your Novices, may you please come talk to me when you are ready to discuss matters more personally,
> 
> Emanuel Agustin, your honored guest and with great hopes, soon enough your Prior.

* * *

Record ends.

Following is attached the second letter from Emanuel Agustin. : )

Record begins.

* * *

> **D** earest Abbot,
> 
> It has been some days and I have thoroughly thought and pondered about what you said. I must say I do not feel comfortable knowing the truth but I respect you and your work too much. Heretical as you may be using the name of God as a veil I still think that in your heart you know that the Almighty Savior would at the very least place you in Limbo instead of in the burning pits of hell because what you do, you do because of your good heart. I will indeed stay here, if only so that I may try to save the soul of you and your novices while you ten do something good. I have already signed the papers and done my prayers, and the room provided is indeed very comfortable, if a bit chilly.
> 
> I think it is wonderful that you have no cook and have each novice make their own meals, although I have to say that you need to at least send them on errands more often for the sake of everyone. The bread is stale and tasteless; the beer watered and the wine lacks bite. Maybe I am to blame your suppliers instead, or poor timing of my own. Which, while a shame, is understandable and cannot be blamed on any of you due to the circumstances at hand.
> 
> I have talked to Perrin, who despite his young age has given me a lot of insight. Some things he says are frankly scary, and I do think that maybe you should not have him - or any of your apprentices - reading as many books as you allow them to. I know I am in no way responsible nor able to change the ways of your monastery, nor am I under any illusion that I am more than just another novice at this point. All my experience in Castile before the plague had truly begun to contaminate all corners is now irrelevant, is it not? You are not a servant of God. I still am, my soul and mind belong to him. But I still must adapt to where I belong now.
> 
> And, on another note, I must say I find it slightly infuriating how well your novices write. They never seem to run out of ink, and oh, the speed of their hands! I have been through my fair number of churches and monasteries not only on my way here but all through my aged life, and I have to at least pay compliments where they are due. Physical punishment seems to be lacking here, but discipline is found everywhere I go. And again, stop them from reading so much. Tell them to rewrite the Bible, if they must. You may be heretical but there is foulness to be found in those books. For the ever-loving passion of Christ, you let them read Alighieri’s work? That is distasteful no matter who you are, even the filth of northern Africa would agree with me. Please, may we join once again to speak.
> 
> With concerns and prayers held dearly at heart, yours, Emanuel Agustin. Your novice and hopefully the savior of your soul.

* * *

Record ends.

Following is the third letter of Emanuel! It’s so much fun watching the house of cards that is reality fall all over someone’s head. Oh, I mean, spoilers? Do you care? If so, I will refrain! I guess I should refrain anyway. It might muddle your view with all my silly thoughts. I’ll stop typing!!! : P And if you are just getting into this little game of ours, pay attention. Or maybe you could use the refresher. : )

Record of the third letter of Emanuel Agustin.

Record begins.

* * *

> Dearest Abbot,
> 
> ~~I am absolutely **furious** by the accusation of your other novices. While it is true that I have spent more than enough time dabbling on the things they write it does not - at all! - translate into some sort of obsession. If any are to be called obsessed it is your lot and t~~h
> 
> I am sorry. The mere thought of being branded a heretic - it is uncanny. Ignore the unfinished mess that is what is written above, for I have let rage take hold of my hand and make me write those awful insults. This year I have spent with you has been enlightening, and maybe I do see some of your ways now. I think it is most succinct if I describe it in the way of one of your novices - Guilles, I believe he was called.
> 
> Fourteen circles, he told me. Of hell, I ask, knowing how these younglings read the wicked words of that florentine fool and knowing too his obsession with those damned circles of him. Of those, there are only thirteen, he told me. And I nodded, and asked him, though apprehensive, of what he may teach me since he was clearly more versed in these unholy questions than I was. His eyes gleamed. They were beautiful as he started to explain.
> 
> The uppermost layer where God may watch over the sinners, not Heaven or Limbo, but his most prized seat atop all of us that he may use to watch over our kin. He knows all, he hears all, no matter the crime, the secret, the benefit or harm it may cause. A frightening truth but one that is blissful to a believer like me. The second, us, the poor people that toil for his attention, and that one day will be vindicated, though we of this monastery and cloth are different. We are not angels, but if I am to understand, we are the closest thing to a holy being, yes? The thought is completely heretical. Christ was a man and so are we. To claim otherwise. I dread that the plague would be the least of our worries.
> 
> Parting from there, the third would be rot. Filth. Where the bodies of the deceased pile high, and where the rats, fleas, snakes, and worms crawl. Fourth would be where those that do not die go to, where they fight desperately to not fall unto the lower levels, but many have forgotten what is up or down. They bite each other, stab each other, and bleed like pigs. For some reason, Guilles mentioned the piping of bone flutes and a choir of screams backing up the war cries of the warriors. Waterfalls of gore from the mouths of those that sang, he added poignantly. A curious detail I do not understand the necessity of, but such is the nature of divine things. He giggled when I asked, and waved it away as if I was a child when I am at least ten years older than him. Had we not bonded so much over these last few months I would have smacked his pompous bald head right then and there.
> 
> Below them, the fifth circle. Holes, he said with a coy smile. I remember his smile. Toothy. Hungry, almost. It’s like he was basking in the fact I was clutching my cross for support. A hole like a grave. None of the buried are dead. They plea, and ring bells, and the clanking rings through all layers but no one comes to dig them. There are the diggers too, he added, and they dig so deep they get buried as well. They dig graves and dig graves for themselves, and none can dig their way back. They try. But the waterfalls of blood and pus from above make the walls crumble, pushing them deeper. Deeper, always, he said his words like he was trying to sell me something. Did he want me to dig? I shuddered. I had done some gardening around the place before. I have prayed ten Ave Marias and I will pray once again when this is over - oh, unnecessary as that tangent was I just had to get the burden out of my chest. I do not feel better, but I think I will soon.
> 
> Sixth, spiders. Spiders. He laughed when I cocked my head. Spiders, plain and simple. He asked if I ever saw a spider. I said yes, of course, killed my fair share too. He laughed even harder. Again, I held the urge to beat him. He told me of the Silk Worms, of how little different they are to a spider. How the strings that make up the finest puppets are no mere cloth but the most succinct silk, and though they are made of Worm cloth, what truly holds them together is the Spider’s thread. Kings wear silk, princesses wear silk, thieves wear silk. Silk is a web. And it is so enticing, to simply hop in and let the spider eat you. The silk is so comfortable. Like the predator it is, the Spider bides its time, but first, it shall watch the puppets cling to life as they dance on the edge of the web. His words were hypnotizing. I must stop writing about the spiders here, as I fear I might just ramble about them forever!
> 
> Below, he told me was the land of balls, of fairs and of jesters. He told me it was not a land of happiness, glee, and jokes, but a land where everyone was a jester. No faces were worn, only masks of cracked clay and wood revealing the emptiness of the wearer. Those that did not know who they were anymore ended up here, and those that liked to trick others. The Greek masks, he mused, surely have acted in too many plays to count. And no one knew. Their faces, he cooed, were made to be replaced. Puppets, literal puppets, walking amongst us. Trying to pretend they were… something. Human? Animal? Like jesters, they delight themselves in the confusion. Odd, I pointed out. Not as odd as what came next, he jeered.
> 
> Eight, a circle that was square. I asked him to repeat himself. And he told me, a circle that was square. This time I laughed. He told me to think of all the doors that I’ve seen that barely fit their hinges, or maybe too big for their own good. Of the flowers that I saw, how they were not quite what I expected sometimes. Of the empty stone arches I was too afraid to walk through, of the puddles of water that showed up despite the lack of rain, and their shimmering reflection. I think I may have understood, but he told me that if I did, then I didn’t. To this moment I am clueless. Maybe I am better this way. It is so interesting to ponder about it, but I have no interest in getting lost in those thoughts. I am a man of God and my thoughts are to Him alone. Amen.
> 
> Ninth, a circle that, due to the circle above it not existing, which just made me even more confused, could get no light from above. He told me it sounded like the ocean, and no matter where you dug your fingers, wet sand would be found. It would cut like glass and embed into your skin, and the only way to escape the emptiness that was being in the darkest abyss was to call for Morpheus. I asked who that could be. He told me he was the God of sleep for the ancient greeks, and as the people wept to be released of that dark beach, he and his worshippers would fill their hands with the glassy sand. And the choice was clear. They could only return to us once they were blind. And those that let go of the sand were forced to keep walking, forever, until they either built up the courage to ask again or simply fell and did not rise up.
> 
> Below, there is light. Not from God’s gaze, but fire. Flame. Just like Dante claimed that Limbo was where those who could not yet have met God due to the age of their birth, he claimed that the last six were those that God looked through, not from his eyes - but from theirs. Different from us, he explained. In this tenth circle, he mused that the flames were from all books and scrolls burned thus far. The pile ever grew with every secret, every bond, every family, every treaty that was broken, forgotten. The more was lost, the more the piles grew. He said that it was important to keep the pyres lit, but not let them consume everything. For there is no fire without fuel, and fuel can only grow away from fire. Which made sense.
> 
> In the Eleventh, in the dancing shadows cast by the flame, the beasts howled. He told me this is where men and women that turned to their bestial nature went to. Where the hedonists that sought pleasure ate raw flesh from rabbits hunted with their own hands, where they howled and fornicated, where they always sought for more. Sought for something. Sought for anything. He told me this was the closest that Dante came to being right, and told me that the closest comparison would be greed. Greed for what, I asked. All, he told me. Any and everything you can be greedy for. A place to call your own, your next meal, gold, power, distant lands. All who wandered too far, who pursued too hard were to end up hunting there. He told me that across the world are hundreds of tunnels leading there, but none leading out. And he told me we are to watch them fall, and to watch them hunt. And I nodded. I don’t know what else I could do. What I would do. Help them? Tell them the truth? I shuddered. The idea made me sick. I guess God works in mysterious ways, and that includes not intervening.
> 
> The Twelfth, he told me, he could only tell me if I was holding his hands. So I did. He told me that the twelfth was where those above who got truly, hopelessly lost went to. They tumbled down and down and down and ended up there. They did not pursue anything other than a way back, they did not know that others were lost with them. They were not blind - not all, but they could not see each other. They walked through the streets they knew, through the homes of their loved ones, and no one was anywhere. Alone, he said. All alone. Forgotten, but alive. Forgotten alive. He let go of my hands, and I realized how tightly I was holding him. I thanked him, though I do not know what for. He thanked me for listening. But we were not done. Close, but not quite.
> 
> Thirteenth, he told me, a drop that did not end. It was less a circle and more a hole. In reality, it was but a few meters tall, though almost infinitely large. No matter where you dropped or how, if you fell all the way from the throne of God to here, or if you just hopped in from the edge, you would never reach the ground. You would fall, and fall, and the light would fade and all that there would ever be was the wind rushing past your face, and the drop.
> 
> At the very center past every hole, at the bottom of everything, a skeleton. It wore a black cloak and nothing else. It had no tools but a goblet, and it looked up. He told me that it was lazy. It was Death, too. I laughed and told him a jest I regret dearly, about how these days, I doubt they can afford to be lazy. I prayed a Pater Noster right then and there. He blissfully let me finish before going on and explained that things die on their own. All will die. Maybe even God, and the Pyres will burn out, and the square-circle will break, and the silk snap… and so on. He told me that it just had to wait. The goblet was never empty, he told me, as it was always full of the fear of death. It drank deep of every soldier’s tension before the General’s order, of every priest that choked on their wine, of every mother that has to \bear a child. It had no morals, it just drank, and drank, and waited.
> 
> Every one of those circles had demons that clawed and crawled and fought and sang their way back to our layer, he explained gently, looking more and more tired by the minute as we reached his conclusion. They corrupt the people that do not fight back their alure and make them into servants, aberrations that fight to bring upon our blessed world the wrath of their own circle, so that all may suffer like them. But by listening, by taking the burden from the sinner's shoulders and allowing them to tell of the things they witnessed, of the horrors felt, we are taking the power away from the demons below. Even if our dreams get twisted, even if our eyes glow different under the moonlight, such is a small price to pay to serve God so well and with such zealous purpose. We may seem heretical, he added, slurring his words, but we are of God's cloth. Never forget it.
> 
> He told me he was done, got up, and went to his room. I heard him collapse behind the locked door, and let him rest.
> 
> I should rest too. This is a lot I just wrote. My wrist aches like never before. I swear I did not bring this much parchment or ink. Odd. I will tell Perrin to send this to you. Maybe you can clarify some things Guillerme has told me? I know I will hear my first confessions tomorrow and I am to write them down if I understood. I will do so.
> 
> Thank you and your novices for enlightening me, your loyal and faithful servant, Emanuel Agustin.

* * *

Record ends.  
  
Whew! That was a lot eh? Don’t worry, here’s how it ends, even if it pains me to write about the death of our own. : (

And these aren’t spoilers. The Archive is ruined, so are the Archivists of the place. Get with the times, I told you it was a ruin by now. ; P

But I guess that’s what I’m here for, to catch you up! Or maybe to teach you. I hope I’m doing good in either case, though! ; D

Anyway, here’s the end! Thanks for reading thus far. <3

Record of the last known letter to Abbot Leroy from Emanuel Agustin.

Record begins.

* * *

> Leroy
> 
> What did we do wrong to deserve this?
> 
> Three years I survived the plague here. You ten, a lot more. Who let him come in? I guess we do not check for who comes in. That is the point, right? To hear and watch and know, but not to enact our force. Like God towards his subservient creations. We watch them in the eyes as we shake hands and wave goodbye, we dream of them as they dream of us. We write their memories down and savor each word and line. I should have known, then. Stopped him from speaking, and burned both him and the confessional. I should have known better. I should have. You all taught me so well. Every worm we burnt, every spider web wiped away, every candle and lamp lit every single night to stave away the darkness that wishes to prey upon us.
> 
> I sent the three I could away. They are safe down there where the confessions are kept. I hope that I did not infect any of them, as the flesh of my hands falls on this note as I write it. I know you seven are infected too. I know it for I talked with you seven, held hands with you seven and didn’t yet yell your names and tell you to run despite knowing that I was infected. It was my fault. I killed us all, except for them. The plague ate us and it was I that brought us all to its table to be feasted upon.
> 
> I hope God watches us.
> 
> I hope he sees our flesh turning black, falling, I hope the smell of pus and my cries are of comfort to him who watches All.  
>   
> I place this letter on your night stand and go to die in my own room and in my own peace knowing I did all I could to serve God
> 
> But I must admit I am afraid  
>   
> I am very afraid
> 
> Goodbye

* * *

Yay! You did it! You read through it all! Thumbs up! : D (And feel lucky you couldn't see the page. I'm lucky I wasn't infected myself!)

I should also mention that you’re looking for a specific record. We believe that they could have leads of a Celtic institute dating back to the times of the Roman invasions! Cool right? : O

The temple was burnt by the people that found the condition of the monks, so any records in progress or stored in the monastery were sadly lost. : ( But at least you’re probably safe not getting infected! : P

If you find any other interesting records there, do mail them to us, however. Preferably you would bring all, but specifically, look for the ones mentioning the Celts. We will be very happy if you do. Meanwhile, we must keep trying to locate the next institute. I have an inkling sensation that this fabled institute of Ireland may not exactly be the only one located in an island. ; P I wonder WHAT island the next one might be located on, however. Oh well. I guess we’ll see! I’ll get back to you.

And uh, you signed the contract by letting me see you. I hope you enjoy being under my employment. Try not to reveal too many secrets… I feel it’s only fair to tell you that your eyes are not just your own anymore. I can’t really read thoughts without a steady link, however, so you’re safe for now! If you do your job well, I won’t even try to pry any secrets. And for now, I will respect your privacy, but I will occasionally check in to see how the job is going. Well, see you in a few hours! I hope you will be getting ready to leave and search right now. The coordinates should be very, very fresh on your mind. So please, do not delay.

I will know if you delay intentionally. I can’t kill you for it… but I can do other things! : )

So this is our bye for now.

Bye!!! My assistant says hi, by the way. : P


	2. Taured.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another e-mail. The Archivist that contacted you before sends yet another message but this time it doesn't seem to be talking with you. In fact, it doesn't seem to be referencing you at all. Was this an accident? Maybe there was a reason for you to read it anyway. After that whole business in France, you might as well see if they at least congratulated you...
> 
> Click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> owo did someone say The Sculptor of Clay? no? well I did and I love the idea that the spiral needs to keep growing but needs humans as fuel to the madness. like. sucking the madness outta yer mad creative lil' brain. some matrix pod shit except you willingly jump in the pod and help create other pods. so most of the spiral's avatars are inventors, builders, people that literally create and expand, and the spiral gets them a wee bit crazy to further feed upon their "this isn't right" feelings because no matter how insane you are you'll prolly notice if the person ur talking with has like 12 fingers and three rows of teeth and you'll go "huh that's fucked up", but also grow as they delve further and further into completely bat shit insanity until they can't feel that uncanny fear anymore because they have turned into it. michael mcfuckhands and helen spiralbabe are not avatars they are the concepts of The Corridors given form and thus wouldn't need to follow this transformation, or MOLDING if you will ( :3c ) into someone that builds shit. they are the shit people built.
> 
> as for the "new faces" the archivist now can make, they can now make the emotes frown. that's it. that's all the new faces they leaned. now they can do > : D instead of just : D. just wait until this fucker learns about cat emojis or those weirdly and comically detailed emojis people do with foreign characters. shit's gon b wild.
> 
> anyway yeah, i hope you enjoy it. <3 I swear this has a plot and is moving somewhere I just don't know where or when it'll be done lmao so just enjoy the ride and worry not

There’s only so many times you can look at the same grassy hills and cloudy skies before enough is enough. > : P (Thanks, assistant!!! These faces are fun and simple to make and I like them very much. : D Now I can show how properly annoyed I am at these horrid, squalid little green and grey lands!)

Joli let me take a break from most things. She said I was still to have it near me just in case I had an epiphany, but honestly, I really have to commend our little courier. I knew they were going to do it; I just didn’t expect to see them alive after! Never know what to expect. But apparently it worked out without a hitch? Or, that’s what they tell me anyway? Still, we’re one step closer towards tracing a timeline of the archives to see what’s going on. And my little Assistant has apparently got a whiff (hah! : D) of a strange case that occurred around 2005 about an American tourist visiting a remote island on the Philipines. Might e-mail the Usher Foundation.

But for now, I must dine. I guess I might as well share my meal with you. Make sure it's... seen. ; )

Record of a man who did not exist, regarding his time on a very real airport. ?/5/1954. Record made on 21/9/1954 on English soil.

Record begins.  
  


* * *

  
  
I am terrified.

I have had experiences like this before. You know, go into a store, greet the clerk, and they give you that funny look. That, funny look. Like, I know, I’m a light pink, caucasian I guess, give it a break. Then I realize they are too. And I get a little weirded out but try doing some small talk, buy whatever I have to and leave. You know. Freak and freak alike, not gonna bother them, gonna hope they don’t bother me.

I guess I’m getting ahead of myself. I heard you need to actually introduce yourself to have one of these things be valid, right?

I am Gefferson Dubblerson. I was adopted in 1908 from France, apparently, while my parents were in a business trip. I was just eight years old at that point and frankly had no idea what was going on when these three people came into my house, looking completely different from the people who raised me, but after a bit of explaining it became clear. They were here to adopt me because apparently my aunt and uncle had gotten lost in the way and by the time they arrived, I would be dead. Which, while at the time I remember being deeply frightened by, I now see as a harsh truth that I would have done better simply accepting. I took my toys, they shook fingers with the Adopter, and mom gave me her linvex finger to hold. I remember at the time it was so big, boney, with far more joints than my little young fingers could ever have, but I held tightly, and so we walked through her door. You know what’s funny? It may just be my young mind playing tricks on me, but I swear our front door was a reddish-brown, but ever since we went back to visit, it was daria. That always struck me as odd.

Still, while I understand that this looks like a tangent I swear it is not, because, now that I am to lay it all out on paper, I can see how many times this has happened before. My mom is Tauredian and my father is French, though he clearly did not have the same deformities I did, or if he had, in his time living with my mother and proper medical help he would have surpassed it. He was white like me, although more of a murky vipp than a caucasian white, so maybe he had spent too much time working on the Presses. My mother was the kind of girl you’d expect to see, vibrant eyes with all colors of the rainbow, black and white bones, her smile was eerie but comforting. She was my mother. She had adopted me when my family had failed me and no matter how weird my two new parents were to my young mind, I was still going to love them dearly.

Now, at my young age, I went to a school. It looked like my old home, the colors I mean. Much less vibrant than what I was used to on my street, just oranges, greys and browns where I expected turlack and daria, and I had to leave the house through the back door to get to the path to our school. It was a small place in the border of Taured and France, and I learned how to speak french, though my parents also taught me how to speak in Tauredian. My life was normal, I went to my friend’s houses, we read books, sang rhymes. The usual stuff. But.

Well, I remember being at school when we heard what happened. I was 13, just barely close to my Birthday and seven months from my Adoptionday, that we heard it. A soldier knocked on the door to the classroom and told us that we should go home. They had to talk to some of the teachers, and maybe we wouldn’t be seeing them for a while.

That was my last day of school for ten years.

By the time I came back, I was starting to look a bit more normal. My fingers had grown a little, and sometimes they had this nice snap when I had been idly tapping for too long and decided to stretch them. I had grown forty-eight teeth, four less than my mother and eight less than my father, although hers were sharper than his, and mine are blunt like bricks. My mother told me we were better just being on Taured while the war raged on, that it was all the fault of those pesky Bosnians. Now, I’m a businessman and I will admit that my mother is quite brash when it comes to such topics. She is vehemently against violence of any kind, so the Great War really demolished her mood. Her walks got longer. Usually, they were a few hours long, and she came back and showed us a new neighbour, though they usually didn’t last long and moved away. Or died. Usually suicides. Ivory blood is something to behold, compared to the wine I bleed. Taured is not for everyone, I guess, just as the Archduke wasn’t to the taste of Bosnia. Fair enough in that case, I suppose. It does still make me shudder that there are so many types of blood. I almost wonder what yours would be like. Looking at me, through your screen, sipping your coffee and waiting for me to get out of here. Angus, was it? What a drab name. You look more like a Lipopznit to me, but what have you, not all of us get to pick our names.

But yes, it was then that my family helped my company get set up. Cement Dub Company. The name was longer, but me and pa felt like some folk from outside the neighbourhood might get distracted by more than a few syllables. This was before World War Two, you see, a little before the Lizbia raids, however. We were to do business with a small company operating from the shores of the Isle of Brasil (Though, at this point I find it easier to just say I work with Brazilians. Apparently, people don’t understand that two places can have the same name, just as France and France. Cowards. And besides, Hy-Brasil doesn’t quite carry a ring to it, now, does it? Brasil it is.) 

We sold mostly bricks and mortar. My mother thought it was a good idea to rebuild after such horrible places, and Brasil had so much to give we just kept selling. Sure, by the time the second one rolled around we hadn’t rebuilt the world, but I think every brick sold helped. It was a pain to paint them orange and red, however. So many poor Jackalopes had to be bled on top of our clay… a gruesome process, but, apparently Gurt is too much for people outside of Taured. Still get shivers just thinking about their death throes. I heard if you grind up their horns they make for delicious sweetener, however. I prefer my coffee bitter, you see, so I wouldn’t know and I’d rather not find out.

We were a small scale, so we mostly operated in France, France, Germany, and Spain. I still visit some of the buildings we helped erect, out in the countryside. Their inhabitants are so cozy. They say they dream of me. See me walking by their windows sometimes. I laugh. Of course, I tell them, we’re neighbors! They don’t seem to get it you know? It’s weird. Mother says it’s a quirk from people who’ve recently moved in. I don’t mind it.

But yes, bear with me. World War Two. Again I hide in Taured, but mostly we tuned out. Mom’s walks took longer now. Longer than ever. She spent nearly three months away, before coming back, smiling. She told me some people had found their way into our neighborhood. I could go and look if I wanted. The gunshots and screams were enough for me to stay inside. I locked myself in my room, but by the time I was done bolting all the locks I had the screaming and shooting had stopped, so I could open the other door back into the living room.

Mother was drinking tea listening to her radio, nine fingers holding the cup in each hand, the other four just tapping along to the sweet sound of allied victory. She told me the fighting hadn’t stopped yet… but there would be no need for me to be afraid. Our company was going to make more money than ever. I agreed.

I got a passport a few years ago. We were making so much money I couldn’t help but get one! And with the new airports being built in France, well, I wanted to use it. So I flew around some bit. Got some deals. Sometimes they said they didn’t recognize me, so I told them how else could I have gotten into the building if they didn’t give me permission? I laughed, and jested, and took them for a stroll in our neighborhood sometimes. They didn’t mention me after the stroll, but we arranged deals, and lo and behold, our bricks are a slapping success. It feels so good being able to drive through our land and just see all the neighbors. Brings some joy to my heart, especially when the TVs came in. I always thought I had a few acting chops but I think I’d be a better voice on the Radio! But, I sell bricks, and that is what I am content doing.

We are finally caught up. Early July, I catch a plane to Japan. I was going to be there a little while to buy some fine crabs for special commemorations and appreciate the architecture. Mostly wood, barely any stone! It’s astounding, those crafty islanders! Might even take some of it for myself. No, no, I jest. I prefer the simplicity of a brick house. Stone, too. Something comforting about them! Still, we land, and I go out amongst everyone else. Trying to blend in the crowd of these people who were once like me, still kind of look like me, actually. Oh, it pains me to say that. I really need to be less ashamed to show my two other fingers. Though I do find the color change a little… too painful for casual use, and caucasian does seem to still be the default choice in most countries where I work on, so I keep it. But well. I land, I get out of my plane, give them my passport and…

I am stopped. There was a problem, apparently. I was confused. Problem? I am escorted away to a room and they tell me what I was doing there. Business, I point to my attire as if it wasn’t obvious. They ask me who do I work for. Cement Dub. They look it up. Apparently I am not listed. I am mad, of course, but I keep my composure. I am a businessman. They ask me where I am from. I roll my eyes and tell them of course that I came from Taured. They pull out a map of the world and tell me to point to where Taured is. I point at it, and apparently they seem to think it’s some “Principality of Andorra”! Our illustrious history, my mother was there to see Taured nearly all the way back to when most of the Iberia was under Moorish occupation and to watch it grow into the beauty that it is today, now reduced to being confounded to some place in an incomplete world map! I blew up, of course, and told them. I don’t think any of them noticed my fingers stretching out. If they did, they didn’t comment - which is rare with people outside our neighborhood. Taured is more than a neighborhood, I’m sorry if I made that impression. It is a cozy little country, but every street feels like it is the one I grew up in. They are all so pretty. So are the citizens. I am proud of my country.

Ah, sorry. Back to the story!

So, I am escorted to the Hotel I hadn’t paid for, because apparently the one I did forgot I gave them the money. No matter. I sit there and wait.

I hear a knock. And I know who it is.

I open it not to the guards that were still whispering their confusion at me, but to mother. She hugged me dearly and brought me home, before setting me down and telling me that planes weren’t going to be the best transportation mode from now on. I nodded. Agreed, really. I prefer walking through our house’s corridors. I like getting lost, sometimes. I always know where I am.

So this is my statement. Apparently this airport at Japan seems to believe that my homeland doesn’t exist, I don’t exist, what else? The Sun is a lie too? Unicorns? The Queen of England? The Sky? It was horrible. I don’t exist too?

I take my leave, Archivist. Take this paper; I hear mother knocking. It’s been a long time since I was adopted. I think I’m ready to go with her to Sannikov. Dad went a while ago, he was readier than me, and Mom wanted to make sure I was ready too. I don’t feel ready, in all honesty, but I think dad visited there more than once? So maybe there they’ll help me. I hope they will.

Bye, Archivist. Signed,   
  


* * *

  
Record ends.

  
The man from Taured… and some other recognizable names. No people, just leads into what is the Spiral’s doing and what is just a few travelers going crazy… though, craziness always has a source. Usually, it’s the Fourteen. Fifteen, I guess! : P

No name at the end, despite the one at the beginning. I don't quite think he was a host to Taured. But maybe they still need laborers? An Avatar of sorts to build further and further upon the endless twisting and crazy halls and cities that don't exist yet every day are visited by unwilling thousands... and a few unlucky dozen that know exactly where to go. Maybe he had done all he could for the Spiral and... well, I can only imagine what happens next. Maybe he went on to adopt someone, and was only known as Father. Or suffered the same fate as his father. Oh, the Spiral. Too confusing for me, too lovely to abandon despite the headaches it causes...

Unlike this ‘Extinction’ apocalypse weirdness thing.

I’m not sure I am completely on board with Joli on her idea about this Extermination she’s talking about. It sounds too much like the End, only a bit more technological, but she’s sure she has leads and parts of the Amazon are apparently the main breeding grounds for this new menace? I’m not sure if or how. Well, I guess I am. Yeah, I see it.

Our argument wasn’t the prettiest since, well, I do let the powers bestowed unto me get the better of my mind sometimes. Just because I cannot see it does not mean it doesn’t exist. Mr. Sandman should be more than enough proof of that.

She also… let me know she doesn’t like my emotes. Apparently telling me matter-of-factly would’ve been too much. She let me peek into her head for just that moment so I could hear it. That hurts more than hearing it from her mouth, honestly. : (

Oh well.

I leave you with this final note, Assistant. I know you rummage through my stuff. I leave my stuff open for that very reason, so don’t worry! : P

…

I was gonna put something else here, but for now, I’m too afraid to ask. I’ll just ask this. Do you think my cute faces are stupid? I can pry the knowledge out of your mind, yes, as I told you before despite my reluctance to show you these powers… but I just want to know. Be honest. I will know. : (

With care and love, your Archivist.


	3. Pigs and Pigs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one. There seems to be no pattern to when It 'feeds’ or messages you or whatever It is doing whenever It sends you these 'Records’ of theirs. This one also doesn’t seem to be an assignment like the first one was, just another story. Does it like mocking you? Does it like showing you them? Reward for a job well done? Feeding you so you can grow a fierce ally of the Eye? Something more sinister?
> 
> Click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [In light of recent events I feel it’s only fair to do a bit of an ACAB thing. I can’t donate and can’t really do anything else to try and support the people fighting the good fight so you know what? A bit of escapism and a bit of a power trip isn’t going to hurt anybody. Except for cops. Fuck cops. Only good cop is a cop that’s not on the force anymore because they died or left. At least the Avatars of the Entities feel some sense of humanity still. Can’t even argue it’s just ‘their nature’ and lump the blame on the Slaughter, cops know very well what they are doing, who they are serving and who they are bagging. At least the Slaughter doesn’t discriminate, sheesh.]

Meat is meat is meat, isn’t it? You must forgive me for the lack of frequency in these. You’d be surprised how busy we get sometimes. And no; it is not satisfied customers returning to feed us more, I can guarantee you that. :P We got visitors and were rather busy figuring out what to do with them. After promptly parting ways one of them left me with this. I have not yet read it but I and Joli have extensively fought to search for any sort of enchantment or some other such that may curse us or in any other way harm us. Nope. Seems to be a bunch of notes written on the back of scrawled out police reports. Meat is meat is meat indeed because the stink of fat and blood is too discernible to run away from. Damn paper and its ability to absorb blood so successfully! :P

As for our current investigations, we are getting stretched pretty thin. Joli is contacting everyone she can in search of this Archive we’re now convinced exists, and I’ve set my dear assistant loose upon the used bookstores of this city of ours, anything relating to the esoteric to see if we may accidentally stumble into an exact location. I think I have to make them do more runs like that. Oh, whole buildings with books stacked up to the ceiling, barely organized, price labels haphazardly slapped on whatever might sell while some others are just forgotten, to be haggled and bargained for. I can only imagine how many Leitners hide in these cramped and overstuffed buildings, how many basements dedicated to the horrible deeds of long-dead Europeans that tried to do their rituals here, in the land where anyone - anything - can begin again. How many bones still move under the thick concrete jungle of São Paulo, how many still toil for gold and jewels in the ancient mineshafts of Minas Gerais, how many slavers and soldiers turned to nothing but their knives and weapons near the Amazonas after weeks of being lost, I wonder, I wonder indeed.

Oh, gee, look at me ranting. ; P

I must shut up!!! But it’s so much fun. > ; P

Indeed I must shut up. I hope you don’t mind me keeping you up to date. : ) And who knows, maybe they’re worried about this Extinction debacle as well. Can’t have an abattoir if all the flesh has been replaced by automated robots…

Record from one Officer Ricardo Oliveira das Rosas, regarding multiple encounters with what he describes as “The Pig Lady”. Original place of recording somewhere in the vicinity of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Dates unknown.

Record begins.

* * *

No one reads these fucking things anyway. Fuck it. Fuck it. If I want a diary who is to stop me? So much paper going to waste anyway. So much for recycling anything. Fuck. Fuck. God damn cuck.

This isn’t a diary. Or a confession; I wrote this under extreme duress. I’m sweaty as all fuck. I can barely hold this pen. But I just need to yell. Somewhere anywhere what happened. This is for me. This is for me. This is for me.

We know everyone around here. We know who owns whatat. What hill belongs to who. Comando Vermelho, Bons Amigos, the rest… we know. We know who owns what and we do not fuck around with them. They pay us to stay out of their way we do, and when they don’t we stir up some chaos to remind them. Yeah, they’re better armed than us, so what? A bullet is a bullet and a junkie missing is another source of income gone. That and we have a straighter aim than them.

So who the fuck is Olivia?

I’ve seen her around before but she wasn’t a criminal. A weird girl who lived at the foot of [REDACTED BY ORIGINAL AUTHOR] and liked to watch us come in and out from her window. I thought about popping off a few shots but we usually prefer to not stirrup trouble at the very foot if we can. Already too many informants to radio our arrival. Maybe she was one of them, if so, oh well. My fault. Whatever, doesn’t matter anymore. There used to be a butcher’s shop leading up to where we usually sent our people to meet up, not a front to sell drugs just a very normal butcher’s shop though I wouldn’t trust the meat from there with a five-foot pole. Way too many flies. Well, I go in while waiting for our guy to arrive, hoping I can probably buy some candy or whatever the gang that owned the place gave the people to sell. Now maybe I have a bad memory. But I know the difference between an old man and Olivia. She’s a young-ish woman, an old man is an old man.

So I try to get some conversation going. Doesn’t hurt to get close with the locals and she was cute enough I was willing to give it a shot. I ask her about the guy that used to work here, who he was. She told me he was a friend of her family. I ask her what happened for her to be working here now. He died, left the place to her family but she was the only child actually interested in running the place. I tell her good luck and go back to trying to get some sweets. I’m not going to try and fuck a girl that just told me her friend died.

Just meat.

I shrug and wave her goodbye, we wait a few more hours, get the silence money, and get out. Clean as clean can be.

Until they call me. Something odd going on. They saw me talking to this one girl they were getting suspicious about. Meat she was selling was 'strange’. I said duh it was strange, it’s a butcher in a cramped, heated up space, I’m surprised they even let the place stay open. They told me to get up there as soon as possible.

I would’ve been dead if I denied them.

I think it’d have been better that way.

Six AM on the clock, I get up, dress on my garb and go meet them at the foot of the hill. They’re all crowded near the one apartment that I knew Olive lived in - again, I saw her she was there she lived there I am not crazy I know she was there and that place was hers I have never seen that old fucking cuck there. Just another brick shack, like every other one. Unpainted bricks stacked with cement exposed, a door bolted on, cheap windows with protective steel encasing them. Millions of houses just like this one.

But it was hers.

God I wish I just told them to fuck off. At least I’d be dead and not having to worry with.

I don’t know what she did to the poor man - not exactly. But I can’t imagine stitching so much shit on top of someone. He was more dog than person. Flayed skin, that drooling tongue, those scared puppy eyes, and of course the note stapled to his flayed chest.

“Bad dogs and bad dogs alike.”

What the fuck does that mean? Did the guy abuse her? This wasn’t his house and if it was I don’t see what he was doing. His daughter maybe? All I know is that no one gets to just do that to someone and walk away. Scores are settled every day, yeah, but there’s usually at least minimal contact with the higher-ups on the hill. This Olivia girl just did that. Just killed a man in cold blood and replaced parts of him with that of a dog for no apparent reason. There’s something going on. Something really, really fucked going on for that level of brutality not coming from a gang. She wants to send a message but I don’t know to who and we’re not sending it anywhere.

I feel sick.

I’m going to bed and have a long talk with José tomorrow. Fuck this.

* * *

  
Record ends.

New page. I wonder why I can’t discern where this scribbled bit is… was it the little group that wanted it gone? Or just the Eye, challenging me to dig to the bottom of this? : o Now that’d be curious indeed.

Record begins.

* * *

Few weeks, nothing happened, already feeling better and bam we get the call.

What happened, I ask.

They tell me they found another body.

I drive there.

We could’ve claimed it was a serial killer who was on the run but well, I doubt anyone would enjoy having the press on this. Like we need anyone else breathing down our necks. At least everyone on the ground is already accepting that this is how the world is but let it get out and suddenly people start whining and they break the only thing that binds this glue together. So keep it silent. It works.

Well it was working at least.

I get the obsession with calling people pigs but Jesus.

I puked. Of course I did.

I’m thinking about quitting but. I’m not. I can’t. I can’t drop everyone like this. Tom did. Tom is a coward. Tom said this and the whole business he had on the top of the hill was 'too much’. Keeps going on about wanting to spend time with his family. Yeah sure. Betting he’s the next one. Now that everyone here hates him he should be. Won’t last a day without our protection. All because he must’ve had a bad trip. I might pay him a visit myself.

* * *

Record ends. Interesting. Dog to pig. I guess what they say about the flesh is true, huh? Meat is meat… : P

Record begins.

-

Two. Two more. I decided to do some investigation in this 'Olivia’ character. She’s clearly the one behind it. It’s always the same. Well, I guess first was a dog. But now there are three pigs. Girl snapped and we can’t track her down. Well I did some investigation. I investigated. She came here before. I guess old guy was her father. Some guy named Leopoldo. Dead now. Another abuse case. Well I’m sorry young lady if we can’t stay on top of everything. We do what we have to. It’s simple. Simple as that. It’s not my fault. It’s not our fault. We have a lot of stuff to juggle all at once and if one of these falls we’re all fucked. I’m here trying my best to keep the population safe, and yeah, I’m making a bit of money on the side but this is for the public good. It’s normal that sometimes we let these cases slip, there’s far more important stuff. God the audacity of some people. And now she’s putting all these cryptic messages written in blood. It’s hard to discern what it is. Kind of disgusting actually. We tried to see what kind but it’s just too damaged. The few times we could get anything the results were animal. Dog. Pig. Chicken. We got human once. It was the first time she wrote the word 'pig’. I did some research. Most people say it was pork. I guess I’m gonna stop eating pork.

* * *

Record ends. Barely any space between his words. More erratic handwriting. Repetition. Fun stuff. : ) Shame it’s ending so soon. I like watching people crack. ; P Oh no, is that sadistic? I guess it is. Something fun about that, though.

Well, in any case.

Record begins.

* * *

  
Meat.

On my car.

Meat on my desk. Meat on my gun. Meat. She was in my home. Meat. So much meat. God. Please.

* * *

Record ends.

: )

Record begins.

* * *

She took the bodies. She isn’t even hiding it anymore. We followed all leads. None. Nothing.

God help us.

* * *

Record ends.

: D

Record begins.

* * *

  
This is the last message I’m gone I’m finishing it I can’t handle it they’re oinking they were dead and now they’re squealing like real pigs I don’t know how they are they are making noise they are squealing and she laughs and I can’t I shot through the door but they just kept oinking I don’t even know if I hit anything I tried my best I’m not guilty I’m not guilty I’m going out on my own terms fuck it fuck her I tried I’m sorry  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


he missed  
[ID: Following 'he missed’, there is a crude, child-like drawing of a pig’s face, winking and smiling. Both the words and the drawing are written, notably, on blood - not pen.]

* * *

  
Record ends.

I’d rather not peer into what happened to this little pig. : P And I’d wager to a dedicated agent of the Flesh such as her, getting rid of a few heads (and limbs!) and replacing them over and over again shouldn’t be too hard. I do have to question where she got said powers, though. I did muse on about Leitners before, I’ll have to do 'research’ myself later. If the smell on these papers is anything to go by though, It’s going to be rather unpleasant… and very smelly! : P

Joli swung by right now. Asked me to see the papers. Well, I told her I was finishing this and would join her with them shortly. I guess her spider senses are tingling! : D

But no, I assume she just wants to have a more direct and not as pleasurable look at it. It is rather hard to pick up on details when you are gorging yourself upon the suffering of others. This is like the cinema, you know. Like a movie! I never understood why people liked those kinds of movies until - well until now! : D I had a friend that used to tell me he felt bad watching them. The inaction. The helplessness of having the means to save someone but being unable to due to circumstances. Well, that’s his opinion. I do have to say I prefer the ones like this though… I know I’m not human anymore. Far from it, if these eyes of mine and this sharp pain on my skull is anything to go by. Electrifying, I should say. But, I still have human emotions! And I don’t think there is a word for the pleasure felt with comeuppance, but that sure is one I still feel, and just like that kick a spice adds to your food it does WONDERS for each of these stories.

Details like such aside I also appreciate the fact I can just send things to you now. It feels so different. I still archive these of course but. Letting someone know I am watching. Letting you watch me watch. Feels… fun? It feels wonderful.

We hope you’re enjoying your break, though. I might be wrong but I have this light feeling you’ll be taking a trip sooner or later!

Now I’m off to Joli. I’ll write a separate note for my assistant if they return and we’re still stuck in that cramped little room of hers. I’d think spiders prefer larger places. > : ( Oh well. We will be seeing you soon, hopefully! I itch for discoveries. And watching you find them. ; )


	4. Host.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite "easy" to digest yet, but less... weird. It did make you start questioning a few things, though. Should you leave your windows open? Is that cobweb from a normal spider, or an agent? That mosquito, a sign that they're onto you? Is meat safe? Are even the roots of the earth not trying to drag you back, to grow inside you, consume you, and dig deep? You're too tired to figure it all out, and the paranoia that's slowly been growing in you has been quite taxing as well. At least it seems like he isn't going to make you 'resign' yet. He has only sent you to one place and then started talking about 'food'. He... you call him he. Is he even a he? Not she? Not they? Did they ever gender themselves, or their apprentice? You know who 'Joli' is. Whatever that may mean. The now increasingly familiar notification of an E-mail makes you sigh, and you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man I started writing this before today's ep. same with writing the flesh fic before the flesh ep. that's... spooky? i guess? idk just something worth pointing out imo. spooky coincidences. or maybe my :eye: powers are activating. or maybe my light power-- oh shit this isn't Homestuck wait fu

Click.

-

I've been thinking to give you a title. That's all.

-

Oh.

That was...

You almost feel a weigh--

New email.

Sigh.

Click.

-

I have settled upon Field Researcher. A third party to help our fine establishment prosper. I think it sounds quite professional! : P Hopefully Joli has made sure that you are not starving. Oh, talking about Joli, we are tracking down that 'Tom' fellow mentioned on the Cop's report since my little Assistant is still stuck organizing the pile of books they brought... and tossed all in a bunch of random bags. Don't even know what is from where. I feel like there's... things, hiding in the pile, but I would rather not dwell on a thousand things at once. Self-destructive as my nature may be, there is still some human sense of self-perseverance inside me! Or maybe my ignorance shall be my downfall. Oh, only the Patron above my Patron may know, and I'm afraid eyelids do not have very good means to communicate. I trust I am in the correct path, however, as Joli has not yet dragged me clawing and screaming from my Keyboard! I wonder if it will ever get to that. Well, the only way to find out is by going forward, and THAT I can assure you... is my goal. ;P

While they organize the books and, hopefully, Joli tracks down our little lead into something she believes is of importance to this woman of the Flesh and us, I shall dine on yet another thing that has been prickling at my side. And while I dine, think of maybe hiring another assistant. Maybe two. Things are... hectic. Too many leads about too many red herrings. Joli wants the Extinction phenomena studied and understood, though I can only speculate the reason for it - and none are good or pleasant for it or me, I assume. Oh well. Whereas I just want knowledge. I tracked down Smirke's list back when I was being reigned by a fool, I tracked all these 'spare' statements I can only assume were handed to me for a reason, I tracked you down and made you sit down and listen. And see. And understand. Or are you one of those curious cases that lack a voice in their head? Hrm, curious, and a possibility, though so minimally possible I wonder if it should even be taken into consideration.

As my assistant says, oof. : X I had to cut a LOT from this... dialogue. I think I ranted too long about things I maybe should have not. And I don't want you to start making trouble. ; P Touch not, want not. See all, be all... or something along those lines. Well, before I accidentally reveal the nuclear codes to Russia's old bunkers or some wildly whacky confusing thing my sight may accidentally reveal after peering in too many minds, let us get going. May you enjoy your crumbles, little Field Researcher. : ) I say that not with irony, but with love.

Oh, talking about love...

Record of Lisa Graham about her most courteous Host, who remains unnamed. Filed 07/04/2002, original location of record filing unknown (for now. : ) ).

Record begins.

-

We love our friend. We really do.

I just wish I knew where she came from.

By we, I mean me and my boyfriend, Rick. Rick Fletcher. Rick is a charming guy with a lot of friends. We met way back in high school, and we just kind of stuck together. I was always more of a recluse and he was kind of my jumping point to a lot of great relationships too.

And trust me there is a reason I'm talking about our platonic and romantic companions. You have to understand.

I didn't like hanging around people but he got me around socially. I mean, I don't hate people, I just prefer to stay at home most days! But some days I wanna go have a pizza with my pals or have some hot dogs without having to drag my boyfriend to do it every time. He needs his personal time too. Less than me but he does.

Now before you even think about mentioning it. She isn't dating him. And this isn't some high concept "I cheated on my soon to be fiancé and now I'm cucking him but I'm gonna write something really elaborate to use as an excuse when he catches me". There's way easier ways to do that. I think.

This is another thing that's been happening. This... plotting. I've just been trusting him less and less though I know nothing's wrong my mind can't help but find wrong things to think about. I think I'm getting paranoid. Well, it's not hard to see why at least!

We're living in our friend's house.

It's a funny business. We bought the place back in '99, and things were pretty quiet. Movie rentals, quiet enough neighborhood, good enough food going around. Having a stadium nearby was neat, too. It was perfect in how mundane it was. You don't expect a shootout to happen or a robbery. Just teens doing the devil's lettuce at best.

We had a few friends nearby. Roger, Mark, Lea... good folk. I don't think I've met Lea yet but Rick tells me good things about her. I heard she got pregnant recently. I hope our mutual Friend doesn't know that.

Jumping from that point, sometimes they crash on our couch for a few days, and Rick on theirs. Again, I trust Rick, I knew him all my life and I know he's a bit too. Well. I don't want to say dumb and hurt his feelings, but I would've found out a long time ago if it was. He's your typical jock. Most of his friends are, too, even the girls he knows get on the fun. I don't, but we make do with movies he enjoys and other stuff. Sports are his home away from me, which I guess is nice. More time alone for me, more fun for him if he doesn't have to make sure I'm okay every three seconds.

But one day, She is there.

I don't know her name.

I assumed she was a friend of Rick's, so I sat down with her and greeted her. If it was a robbery, she wouldn't be drinking our coffee and leisurely reading our books, nor would she have kept talking with me. She moves so gracefully. Her chocolate skin, silky, beautiful, shining. I thought 'Oh, this must be Lia', but she gave me no name. She skirted around it. She is our Guest, she said. Which is a lie. She owns the house. She is the Owner and we are the Guests.

I got pretty tired, and got up, and went to my room to leave her be. Then comes my boyfriend, and I go join him in talking to her. But I couldn't get up. And then I didn't want to get up. I didn't get up, in the end, and I barely remember but I felt this clawing desperation in me that comes back every time I think about that moment. I don't think about that moment much anymore. She said it's silly to do so. I think it's silly to do so too, but I do not have free will.

Well, after she was done talking to my boyfriend she got up and left, and we just acted as nothing happened. She hadn't visited us that day. We talked to her hours ago though. On the phone. It was working. Just for her, it was.

Things got complicated from there.

We just hung around. She was quite nice for the first month or so. We sat on the couch, all three, we watched movies, talked, laughed. Occasionally she said something weird and we laughed. Occasionally she said something weird and we'd be quiet for the rest of the day. Normal friend stuff, nothing too worrying.

We woke up one day and she wasn't there. I remember Rick crying. He moved and acted like everything was fine but he just kept weeping. I don't remember him crying, but I remember his friends coming over to talk with me about it during his training, asking if anything was wrong with him. I said no, we were fine, better than ever and nothing was wrong and he was probably just tired or having some mood swing and maybe he should stay home for a few days. We slept on the same bed. We hugged. He cried on my shoulder.

The next day our Host came back.

She caressed my cheeks, caressed my boyfriend's. She told us to not go into the kitchen. She went out to buy something yesterday, she added, buy something and cook us a hearty, delicious, healthy meal. Better than what we could buy in stores. When Rick tried to ask about where she bought it if not a store. She smiled and he got quiet.

I think he was afraid. Do you also see that glimpse in people's eyes? That little hint of horror. Or anxiety. Trying to show nothing's wrong but sheer instinct and bodily functions betray the body. I don't get why he'd be afraid. She's just the owner of the house. She's helping us. I only got annoyed about what she did with the kitchen.

We couldn't go there. Too much hair, we have too much hair for what she was preparing, she tells us. I didn't understand, my hair was pretty short and hers went down past her hips. But I said ok. My boyfriend agreed too. It was ok. No worries. We never go into the kitchen anymore.

I sometimes get this feeling. When she's in another room, or in the kitchen, and we're left alone. I look at him and see that... glint, in his eyes. The fear. The horror. But something else too. Desperation. Like he's ready to run away at any moment but he can't. I wonder why. He should be happy. I'm happy. Our Host is happy.

We stayed a week just at home. Sometimes people knocked but she told us they weren't invited. Did I invite her, she asked? No. Did Rick? No. And neither did she invite anyone else. So we stayed quiet and waited for them to go away. She used her phone sometimes. She used our phone sometimes. I don't know how. It was broken. She fixed it. It was fine. She's fine.

After that week she said we needed guests. The house was too drab and she had redecorated our kitchen. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have guests over? Share our little piece of heaven with others? I nodded. Rick nodded. We cried. She pet us, and sent us to work.

I worked in a mall. Cashier. I didn't work in a mall. I don't know what I work on. I tell a lot of people a lot of things. I've been an airplane pilot, nurse, psychologist, hypnotist. I mostly hang out in clubs these days. I love it. Usually crying in the bathroom, while my boyfriend is out getting out with his pals. He cries a lot less.

When we're together, me and Rick smile. We hold hands. But there's this glint in this eye. Fear. Horror. I'm not scared of her. I know why he is scared. I know of who he is scared of. I know what he is scared of.

We've been bringing a lot more people home these days. He brings his crew from the team. The girls at the club that help me get back home. The guys that ignore that I have a boyfriend - or the genuinely nice guys! They exist. I like them too. Very kind, very sweet people.

We knock.

Once, twice.

The door opens, and we go inside. I see that they're confused, and I bet Rick does too. They're scared, sometimes. Or angry that we're living with someone and didn't warn them. Whatever it is it gets washed away by our Host. She's so gracious. Her four claws, caressing their cheeks, cooing them, praising them for their courage, and for accepting her invitation.

They go into her room. It used to be our kitchen. She makes our meals. Always so warm. We eat silently before thanking her. She's so nice. A bit for us, a lot for her. She's the owner. We serve. We cry.

She said she will be moving and told me to give this description to you people. I went to the Kitchen. It was clean. It was spotless. So much silk it was beautiful and clean. I will cook for myself and my boyfriend today. Some fried eggs. I'm just glad we won't have to watch our steps for any spiders. I hated waking up and having to vomit them all out. I hope she knew that. I hope she forgives me for it. I hope she is happy wherever she goes. We deserve this. And we have done all we could. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank y

* * *

Record ends.

She wrote 'thank yous' until it ran off the paper. Apparently, as the little note attached to this infers, they only realized she was 'in need of help' and that the statement would require further investigation as soon as possible when there came another person to record their supernatural occurrence and noticed the table was completely covered in 'thank you's, and that it was, and I quote, 'too much, even for their creepy library building' before promptly leaving. As the further investigation into the case by our forebearers suggests, they located the home by the notice that broke a few days later that a couple had burnt their apartment in a freak accident with the stove. Something with the gas, probably, as the whole place was blazing in minutes, though no explosions were reported. Only their apartment went up in flames and by some 'blind, lightning hitting the same place twice' kind of luck (Their words, not mine! > ; P Though, it does sound like something I'd eventually say... oops!) all the floors above them were vacant, as was the one below.

The most curious thing about the fact is that despite there only having two people living at the apartment for three years, and no commotion being heard by neighboring buildings, they found unidentifiable human remains all through the house, mostly in the kitchen. No comment or revelation to the press was made but, apparently an Assistant managed to get that information out of a cop who worked on the case a few weeks afterward.

Well, I can only hope the politeness of the Spider extends to Joli not murdering me and my assistant in our rest when she thinks we're of no use. Well, their sleep, my rest. I find that funny. : ) I don't have to sleep anymore! So much time to keep writing writing writing writing W-R-I-T-I-N-G! : D

Oh, more than writing, looking! I am now looking not for another Field Researcher ( Trust me, you are good in your field! : ) ) but for another assistant! Joli said she'd look for someone 'normal' this time. Whatever that means. Knowing her she might bring a mannequin that talks! : P Oh, talking about mannequins! We really need somewhere to store all these things. A bigger building maybe. A place of our own, not some dingy office in a building. I'll bring that up with Joli. I might have to do it on my own, however. Oh well. At least the books are at arm's length if I get a sadly unsavory record.

We will see you soon. : ) Well, I already see you. : P But I mean, hrm, well, we will contact you with SOMETHING to do soon I hope! I bet you're as antsy as me to find another lost archive! ; P

Goodbye, Researcher. : )


	5. Humming.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ping.
> 
> Was the E-mail sound ever a ping? You groan. You were in another room. You left your device in another room and yet you could still hear that damned ping. Didn't you have earbuds on? Surely you wouldn't have your volume raised so high you could still hear that infernal notification anyway. And yet it rings in your head. You drop whatever you were doing- it can wait. They? You're not sure. You'd rather not find out in case it can't.
> 
> Click.

Dear oh dear Researcher, glory be! Guess who oh who just found out a secret, a fine secret indeed. Apparently not all the money and dedication in the world can overwhelm the sheer lack of organization of a used bookstore. A Leitner! Presumably untampered with as the condition should tell you. : P Bound with plain strings, the cover made of cheap leather, the title engraved with fading gold - real gold. "Memorias Póstumas de Brás Cubas." Care for a quick history lesson? Or maybe you don't care. If you don't... well, shame. : P I think it will sadly be too relevant to skip on- this time! And refreshers are always good. : )

Well, there were some Brás Cubases (Cubasii? I should know, but alás, I guess some confusions are eternal.) some time ago... but they're not the men we talk about here. A fictional man. Dead. His Posthumous Memoirs, in fact. Or was it 'Epitaph of a small winner?" I guess both versions exist, both the same - oh, but unnecessary complications aside, the point is that I have no intention to read it. Sounds funny, right? Well, I've read more than my fair share of tales about these odd books. A bit over half end with death. Therefore, I shall refrain from reading it. As much as I want to, I cannot just die for the sake of pleasure.

I shall see what I can do to get an idea if the contents are safe, but hopefully, it isn't bound to one by trade or by touch. That would be a shame... but as far as I'm aware, that is an Assistant's duty. Which would be a shame. : (

Well, alas, all I can do for now is what I can only do always. Write.

Care for another Record? I'll take that as a yes. : )

Records of the confession of Jonas Willhelm, concerning the string of murders that took place in Dodge City, Alabama. Dated 5/03/2002.

Record begins.

-

I write this to you because I am already sure of my fate. Don't worry, I'll get justice if justice is what you're worried about, and if not. Well. Catharsis? Whatever my death brings to you I'm sure it'll be fine.

It was me. I killed Graham Becker, I killed Nora and Filip Woods, I killed Jameson's kids, and I killed Leonard Omar, plus an unidentified woman. It was me. I do not have any mental illnesses, I was raised quietly in Montgomery until my parents decided that enough was enough of the big city and they took me to Dodge City. Then again, calling it a city is a bit of an overstatement. But anyway.

I was always a quiet kid. I didn't like making a fuss if I could but I was relatively social. I was homeschooled, and my father was usually out taking trips to work. Maybe he was cheating on my mother? Maybe he wasn't? I don't care, and it isn't important, as my mother was, to put it gently, a bit of a pushover. I was not raised badly or without love, maybe I was raised with too much love if anything, as by the time I turned eighteen, I was still unaware of how to do anything harder than count past a hundred. Truth was, I was also pretty lazy.

I didn't want to learn. I was comfortable learning how to make food and helping mom take care of the housework, I could care less about Father's finances or 'being a good husband'. I lived a relatively simple life, and things were good. As good as they get in a small town when you're a shut-in, at least. We had no TV or radio, just books. Honestly some pretty good books. Mom also sometimes wrote poems, and I quite enjoyed them. Not anything too grandiose, just some light prose with what vocabulary she had. 

I was taking a trip to the store, as my mother was sick that day, and my father would take at least another month in the big city when I stumbled on a woman.

Big surprise, right? People on the street, and if you're distracted you bang heads with them. Oops. I was 21 at the time, and pretty tall at six foot ~~seven~~ ~~four~~ six feet something. I may be good at killing people, still not used to the imperial system. In any case, it surprised me to find someone so tall. I apologized profusely - I still had manners, mind, when she told me it was ok. She was actually glad since she needed an excuse to talk to someone.

I asked her if everything was ok and she told me yes, it was very much fine. She just needed a seat for both of us, somewhere quiet. I obliged and we went to the front of my house. My mother wasn't dying, mind, so I wasn't in a hurry. I'm sure she'd appreciate me finally meeting a girl, anyway.

We sat on the steps of my house, and she told me she had planned to kill me once we stumbled. Had, she noted. I laughed awkwardly. Right? Who just tells you that?

She told me then that she had decided instead to sing me a song. She asked if I wouldn't mind. I didn't. Maybe I should have. I don't regret it though.

It wasn't a song per se. It was this... humming.

I can't tell you how long it lasted, or when I noticed that I had brought her inside, or when I noticed I had broken her neck. Seriously, I just blanked out. I remember in detail disposing of every one of my victims, but with her, it just happened. Dumped the body in Misty Harbor and no one made a fuss, so, I just ignored it for a few days. I guess I must've given my mom the meds since she got better relatively quickly, so I just ignored that as me having some weird, surreal experience. I mean, when you can't remember a murder it's probably just some weird dream, right? For the most part, I thought she drugged me and that was just my mind's way of dealing with it. I didn't even know her name.

Well, that was until Nora. She was a sweet old lady, occasionally came to town to see her great-nephew, David. A good guy. I think he's playing baseball now? I don't know, we lost contact since he moved. And why did he move? I have an inkling of suspicion it might've been me.

I was riding my pa's bicycle, trying to stretch my legs, and start leaving town, and that's when I stumble on sweet old lady Nora. She was a nice woman. But she was alone. Her car was smoking. It probably overheated. It happens, I assured her, though to be honest, I know barely anything about cars, just that if they get too hot they tend to not like it very much. So I told her to lock herself up and just wait. She'd be good to go in no time. She did, and to be honest, I don't know how she agreed. I know she was old and, quite frankly, probably starting to get senile, but surely you need at least some sense of self-preservation to stay alive? Well, still, I could've told her to call a mechanic or her nephew.

I still don't know anything about cars. But I know that if you rip out enough things, and the engine is hot enough to make a nasty burn on your arm, it doesn't take long to get a fire going.

I stood there longer than I should have. Just watching. Her fruitless attempts at beating the glass. The crying. The sobbing. The pleading. Then came the screaming.

Hearing people burn alive is interesting. I think anyone's death throes are interesting, actually. There's something about the inflections, the raw emotion, almost reminds you of a melody. And once you hear a few, maybe you'll understand what I mean. Maybe you'll start to hear it in your head too. That cacophony. Slowly swelling.

I'm getting ahead of myself though. In the end, I went back and told everyone what happened. David cried a lot, but thanked me for trying to save her. I never told them that. I guess they just assumed. It worked just fine for me. Dad got my wounds fixed up, and yeah I still have the burn scars, but it's fine. I just wear large sleeves more often than not. He also made sure to run some psychological tests on me - all fine, apparently I answered pretty normally, with the level of distant empathy that might be expected of someone who just went through a traumatic event. All in order, they said. I still think they're right.

It wasn't even a day later and I was out in the woods, and there was this redneck. Leonard, as I came to know later. Now I have seen him in our town before but he clearly wasn't from town. We were in one of the nearby creeks, the specific one escapes me right now but I think it was the Reid Creek, a good distance into the trees. He had a gun, I guess he wanted to hunt something? I greeted him, said hey, we sat by the creek. I don't know why I waited, because I wasn't afraid of getting shot. I don't know why I killed him now, either. He had been a bit of an asshole before but not enough to deserve that. You just get the urge, you know? You see the opportunity, you know nothing will happen - and if something does, it'll be far too late anyway. You just go for it.

I haven't heard them talk about finding his body, but I drowned him and I want you to know that. Grabbed his gun and whatever ammo he was carrying, and hid it in a pretty quiet spot under a tree. It was a dumb move but I only learned that a few weeks later.

Guess who came to visit his spouse? Filip. David was getting ready to move, and I think he was getting some distance from his grandfather anyway. The old man still wanted company, and so we went to hang out since I was the one who 'tried so valiantly to save her'. I took him to the creek and told him to take a walk. Breathe some fresh air, get a good clear head to move on. I pulled out the gun from the tree, got some distance, and clicked. Nothing. I guess I should've expected it. You don't really just put a .308 under the mud for a couple of days and expect it to fire, good as new. Well, I had no tools to clean the thing even if we went back home, so I just did what I did best.

He was an old guy, smoker. It's a shame too, but not that much. I tackled him and kicked him until he stayed down, breathing in a panic, trying to gurgle out a scream but nope. Throat too sore. Probably didn't help that I broke something inside him, but no matter. I grabbed the barrel of the rifle and got to it, humming all the way through. Could the gun have misfired due to the impacts and everyone figured out my little ruse? Yeah, it could've. It didn't, though. I just mashed his chest with it and the attempts at screaming turned into low gurgles. I didn't stop until he was split in half. This is a bit of a lie because I started to go away but then this urge overtook me. A need. I went back not even a minute later and bashed his skull in. Do you know how hardy a skull is? Let me tell you, more than you'd expect. It looks so frail in movies like if you tap it somewhat hard with a hammer it'll crack. It needed quite a few sturdy hits with the back of the rifle to get it split though, and from there I just mashed the brains and jaw until enough was enough. It was quite the grizzly scene but there wasn't a lot of game around anyway, but occasionally a bear would walk by. It was way too gruesome to be a bear attack, but I didn't get caught and no one's complaining. Though, the smell became unbearable for a couple of months. I still went back there, though. Humming. Checking on the corpses, kicking up more dirt over them., slowly but surely hiding them.

It was like, a year? A year and a half? I don't remember, it was sometime after August 2001. Jameson moved into town with his two 'boys'. He called them boys, but they were taller than him. Two mean guys, basically just moved in to kick up trouble and act like they own the place. They actually extorted money out of a nearby church for protection. Can you believe it? But no, that wasn't the reason I killed them. In truth, there was no reason. They were behaving fine, sitting in a nearby bar. I usually went there to score myself a drink, my mother also took me there to learn how to drink. Yeah, keeping your alcohol down as a young adult is a bit harder than I guessed.

They were just drinking. The bartender actually liked them, or at least, liked the money they gave. They drank a lot.

I broke a bottle and, you know, I think the human instinct isn't always to fight or flight. There's a third option that's pretty recent, in terms of evolution. Talking. Because when I was approaching them, do you know what they told me? They put their hands in the air and said "Woah, buddy, we don't want any trouble". They had been doing so much the last few days I almost laughed. But no. I wasn't gonna give them that satisfaction, that they earned what was coming to them. That felt too good, you know? Too good for them. Dying to make up for their crimes. No. I didn't answer, I didn't laugh, I didn't snarl, I just jammed the bottle into his belly a couple of times. The brother tried to help, but by the time he got a hold of my arms, there was no way to save the one stabbed. After that I just waved the bottle enough that it eventually slashed through one of his eyes, he let go of me and I jammed the bottle on his throat. The bartender was crying when it was all said and done. I grabbed the money, gave it to him, and started dragging the bodies out, cleaning the place a little. I did the best that I could with the blood but, blood seeps. It was made of wooden boards. Just a bad combination overall. The bar completely closed two days later, and I'm pretty sure it's been destroyed.

That brings us to my last victim. Graham. Now. I think I kept the ruse going on long enough. Well, I call it a ruse, but I doubt some redneck homeschooled by a lonely mother and a distant father should know stuff like what a .308 cal is or all these words. I doubt he was literate before I got to him, honestly.

I'm not sure what I am. I just whistle. I whistle, and hum, and sometimes I even tap my legs. It's a song. I keep hearing it. It's always been there for me, I think. I didn't lie, though. Technically speaking I am Jonas. As I was Emily. As I was Karen. As I was Fynn. As I was Bo. As I was Todd. As I was Enzokuhle. And so on.

I kill, and hum. I'm not sure if I'm older than the humming. I'm not sure what was my original body - maybe I forgot it. I just remember the song. I always hum while doing it. It's not calming - I don't feel calm. You don't hit an old man in the chest until it looks like jelly while being calm. But it's there. It's sweet. It's addicting. It's not... good. It's not like doing drugs- and after my fair share of addicts, I think I can say that pretty confidently. It's like a need. Like drinking water. It's nice, yes, necessary of course, but you don't live to do it. Only I do.

Yeah, I like the water analogy. Let's keep going with it. Most people drink drops. You kill a mosquito, you spray a fly, you step on an ant, you use a rat trap. You claim it's because of the danger of infection, or because you hate them, but sometimes it kind of becomes... like clockwork. Do you understand, Archivist? Every time you smack your hands together to kill a mosquito do you think 'Oh no, it's gonna bite me, therefore I must kill it'? Or is it just your body acting as it must? Everyone needs to drink water.

Some people need more water. Some people don't understand that you don't need that much water. Some people just want to watch the water flow, because they're fascinated by it. And there's me. I'm always thirsty. I'm always. Thirsty. And sometimes I need to quench my thirst.

And now your assistant comes to me. Graham. He seems like a good lad. Reminds me of that Czchek I met a century ago or so. Maybe only ninety years. In America too! Funny coincidence. Well, no matter. I know he's coming, he called me in for an interview. Apparently the bartender talked. I'm not gonna chase him down... that's not how I do things. It never has been. I just get way too thirsty and sometimes I have to drink. I expect to hear of you soon, Archivist. Well, mostly because you'll be looking for your assistant. I can't promise I'll make it quick, or fast, we'll just see what happens.

By the time you read this, I'll be yet another dead man walking. Maybe I'll try another woman, this time. I quite like those. People tend to underestimate them a lot. It makes it easier. More to drink.

Goodbye, Archivist. I'd say I'm sorry but no. I just had to get it out of my chest. Have fun.

\--

Record ends.

That was... a surprising one. Changing bodies by... humming. That's new, I guess.

No news we could locate out of Dodge City, but there are quite a few cases of people missing in that area. We tried to contact Jonas' parents, but the father said they had already given all the details they could to the Usher Foundation before not so kindly ending the call, and the mother said she wanted nothing more to do with her son. There is no missing person case filed for Jonas but I can assume that he's not exactly in circulation anymore.

I don't think we could do much to look at what happened even if we wanted to, with all these plates we're spinning, and now there's at least one Leitner sitting in our book collection.

Archivist notes: Finish this after you're done talking with Joli. Try to not think too much about the song. Please? It hurts. More than usual.

hi uh """assistant""" here. since the two are pretty busy rn and i'm WAY past caring about all the fucked up shit they write abt imma just save you the trouble and send it to you as is. the record seems to b done already anyway and that's what matters ig??? i'm trying not to read much I just look for the "record end" bit and if it's there I send it while they're away drinking coffee or smth. anyway enjoy? i'm not sure why they send you these???? like is it helping us in the search for archives? i need to learn to stop thinking abt it cuz it aint worth it, lmao, anyway cya


End file.
